


Those are the Days That Bind Us (Together Forever)

by nightwideopen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Fragile Louis, M/M, Mind Reading, No Smut, Soulmate AU, Teacher Louis, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU where when two soulmates meet they can hear each other's thoughts for a limited amount of time.</p><p>or </p><p>My Excuse To Write Teacher!Louis</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those are the Days That Bind Us (Together Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, here is my Soulmate AU that I'm reposting for the third time (whoops) :)
> 
> *IMPORTANT* but there's a spoiler alert so... idk that's kind of counterproductive isn't it
> 
> Near the end of the story it mentions Louis being drugged and raped. There is no graphic retelling, but it is just a warning as it mentions you know- the before. And as for the reason Louis thought the other guy was his soulmate (because there was confusion the last time as i don't exactly explain it cos im dumb) is because in this verse there's this method of projecting thoughts and the guy used it to trick Louis.
> 
> Also, this is literally inspired by a dream that I had where Louis was my English teacher and I really could not stop thinking about it.
> 
> OKAY THAT IS ALL, hope you like it!
> 
> Title from Bad Blood by B∆STILLE :D
> 
>   **Updated as of: March 9, 2016**

Louis is running late… again. For as long as he can remember, he’s been late for every important thing his life thus far. He doesn't do it on _purpose_ ; he just has an unfortunate tendency of disregarding time that he inherited from his mother. 

He’s currently hopping around his bedroom of his apartment trying to lace up one of his black dress shoes- which he only breaks out on special occasions. He’s got a toothbrush that probably doesn't even belong to him sticking out of his mouth and his phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, all the while yapping away to his mother. His best friend and roommate, Zayn, is watching him from the doorway, looking entirely too amused.

“Absolute idiot,” Zayn whispers to himself. Louis almost doesn’t hear him. (Only, he does, because he’s convinced that he has some sort of super sonic hearing.) Regardless of whether he heard or not, the look he catches Zayn giving him says it just as well. He rolls his eyes at him, trying to put on a tie and nearly choking himself when he trips over a rogue shoe.

“Yeah,” Louis slurs around the toothbrush, “Mom, yeah, alright! Okay!” He groans audibly right into the microphone, zipping up his pants. “Mom, I love you loads but I’m already gonna be late. No, mom, this is your fault now. _No_ ,” he whines into the phone, “Mom, I _need_ this job. Okay. Yeah, I promise,” an exaggerated groan follows, “Love you, bye. _Jesus._ ” 

He manages a half decent windsor knot with his tie and lets his phone fall onto his bed. He realizes that he hadn't even really brushed his teeth, just swished the toothbrush around a bit. 

“Zayn! My love!” He calls from his bathroom. “I need a piece of chewing gum! If you wouldn't mind! Something extra minty!”

Zayn rolls his eyes and stalks off. “Typical.” Then he wonders aloud why he even bothers buying Louis toothpaste.

“'Cos you love me!”

Zayn cackles once loudly.

*

The interview goes swimmingly.

Or, at least it does until the woman asks if he’s found his soulmate and he has to wearily shake his head, throat constricting. 

He hates that it’s a standard interview question. He’d thought that by this time he’d found his soulmate already, with all the looking he’s been doing. Louis had spent five years traveling all over the country from school to school in hopes of running into _that_ person. Sadly, nothing’s come his way, and it’s getting a bit disheartening.

He got the job though, of course he did, being way too overqualified for a tenth grade English teacher. He’s worked at a myriad of colleges and universities teaching people younger and older than himself alike. He’s been hopping around like a migrating goose from city to city living week by week in cheap apartments for one school year until he moved on. Louis always moved on. However, along the way he’d picked up Zayn, an art major, who was traveling around for the same reason. They’d ran into each other in Phoenix, and both had agreed it’d be best for them to settle down and just let it happen. They became fast friends and were soon sharing a small apartment in the heart of New York City at the ripe ages of twenty-three and twenty-four. But that was two years ago.

Even so, just a few weeks ago, Zayn had found his actual soulmate.

He’d been sitting on the train, coming home from work (the simplest thing, he still couldn't quite warp his head around it) when string of curse words had passed through his head, in a voice that sounded like it was doing a bad thing. It had been as if they'd never so much as muttered “shit” in their entire life. He looked around, trying to find the culprit of the foreign voice in his head. His eyes landed on a mousy-haired boy who's cheeks were flaming red. (He especially likes to tell that bit because it rhymes.) Not a moment later, they’d locked eyes and Zayn, calm, cool, and collected he is, sent a single telepathic “hi.” The boy, which he eventually learned is called Liam, responded in a series of mental stutters and stammers. Zayn was head-over-heels instantly, standing up and sitting next to the boy. He took Liam’s hand, right in the middle of the crowded train, and kissed his cheek. Sweet and innocent. And the rest, as cliché as it is, is history.

Zayn enjoys recounting this event to anyone with functioning ears.

Now though, in a few days Zayn would be moving all the way across the city. With Liam. Whose thoughts he’d finally stopped hearing just yesterday.

So Louis had made the executive decision that he needed to get a steady, easy, decent-paying job in order to keep up with the rent he’d now have to pay on his own. His shitty record store every-other-day job simply would not do.

When Louis finally does get back home from the interview (it takes him twice as long because he drags his feet the whole way), Zayn and Liam are making out on the couch, most likely moments away from jacking each other off right there. They don’t look up, or stop, or even acknowledge the fact that Louis is in the room and _sees_ them. So, Louis stomps his feet extra loud, rolling is eyes a bit too hard, and making sure to hurl one of his shoes at Liam's head as he passes by.

He makes his way up to his room, more frustrated than he’s been in a while, and throws himself face first onto his bed.

“Why me,” he groans. 

Louis knows that no one is going to answer, so he gets up, opens his bedroom window and sits on the windowsill. It's something he does quite frequently, when he wants to pretend he’s in a dramatic music video or write a poem or two. He knows he’s shit at it, that he doesn't use nearly enough imagery or metaphors or big words or whatever it is that poets do. He usually just writes what he sees, the people passing by mostly. He makes up their life stories based on what they look like, what they're wearing, if they're in a rush or not. Louis hates knowing that he’ll most likely never see half of them ever again. But he’s found that if he looks through the window at a certain time on a certain day he’ll catch glimpses of people he’s written about before, and he’ll add to their story, just a verse or two, and he’ll smile to himself at the familiarity.

He looks out of the window, chewing on his bottom lip, thinking he must look extremely ridiculous still wearing such a disheveled suit. It’s still pretty warm for early-September, but after living in the city for so long he’s learned to not complain. He doesn't feel like writing, so he just watches the people, wishing it were raining to complete his ‘just got left at the alter’ aesthetic.

Then he wishes he had someone to call him out on his strange thoughts.

 *

The following Monday is Louis' first day at this new school that he gets lost on the way to. It could be worse, because he’s only twelve minutes late to his first class. 

He stumbles into the classroom muttering “sorry” and “fuck” with 36 pairs of eyes on him. Not a single one of them make a sound when he trips over his own feet, or when he drops all of his papers behind his desk, or when he hits his head on his way back up from picking up his papers. It takes three minutes and forty-two seconds for him to get settled and when he finally does and stands up straight, smoothing out his shirtfront, the entire classroom bursts into fits of laughter.

It takes him another sixty-eight seconds to get them quiet down.

“Alright!” he shouts. “I’m late and... you're enjoying harassing me on my first day, aren't you?” Another round of giggles. “Right, let me just…” he looks behind himself, spins in a singular circle like a dog chasing its tail and points at a blond-haired girl in the first row. “You. Take roll for me.” He hands her the attendance sheet. Then he whips to a small, dark-skinned boy in the fourth row. “You. Come here and give me the dirt on the clowns in this class so I’m prepared for who I’ll be telling to shut up for the next ten months.”

From there, he spends the first lesson learning everyone’s names and hobbies and favorite things to read.

He finds out that Kate likes to ski and that she loves horror novels. He finds that Daniel enjoys music, singing covers and his own acoustic pieces, and that he likes reading plays. He also discovers that Sandra would rather be called Sandy and she’s been to twenty-five concerts just this past summer. She enjoys murder mysteries.

He tells the class that he’s particularly fond of poetry and that they’ll be studying several poems, long and short, happy and sad. They all groan, except for one boy, who has curly hair the color of chocolate and the most dazzling green eyes Louis has ever had the fortune of gazing at. He almost feels bad for thinking what he does, but he can’t help admiring eyes as nice as that. (He’s rather fond of people’s eyes, windows to the soul and all that.) The boy’s name is Tobias, he comes to find, Tobias Styles and he’s the most adorable fifteen year old Louis has ever seen.

After the introduction, young Tobias raises is hand and in a tiny voice asks which is his favorite poet. Louis nearly passes out, honestly. He boasts that he doesn't necessarily have a favorite poet, but he proclaims that Robert Frost is much too overrated, so they won’t be reading any of him.

When he gets home later that night, he collapses into bed, smiling. He sort of thinks that maybe this _teachingabunchofpubescentkids_ thing won’t be so bad. And he kind of can’t wait until he gets to meet the parents.

He wants to make his mark as the favorite teacher.

 *

Three months later, in the last week of November, Louis is hoping he’s made at least a half decent impression on some of these kids. He teaches three classes a day and he thinks he’s related to a few of them on some level. Most of the kids laugh at his awful jokes and participate rather enthusiastically. He’s gotten particularly close with a couple of kids who decided they want to actually attempt to have some sort of friendly relationship with their English teacher. He hasn't had much of a chance to get to know a lot of the other teachers, usually being stuck for at least two hours after school talking to a small group of his students. 

He enjoys it, don’t get him wrong, kids are a fascinating species.

This Thursday night, however, is the night he gets to see just how much these kids talk about how not funny he is in their homes. Ah, yes, his favorite night as a teacher; telling his students’ parents how wonderful they are and how they need to participate more and stop doodling and keep up the good work and having to recount every monumentally ridiculous thing he’s ever said. It’s tedious most of the time, but he has a good feeling that tonight could be interesting.

The first hour includes a few of his favorite students who choose to rush to him before the line gets too long and they have to see all of their other boring teachers (yes, he’s famous.) Kate and Sandy and Daniel and Leah and Michael and Matthew and the Mitchell twins (God help him) all come along for their beautiful report with that hour.

The second hour is much less eventful, the bookworms and doodlers and the out-the-window-lookers stop by for their spiel on how they're such good listeners even when it seems they’re not really pay attention. Those are always the ones Louis keep an eye on. They will do great things.

However, the last hour brings something Louis couldn’t have expected in a million years.

He’s tired, irritated, barely keeping his eyes open and the smile on his face is fading. He knows that students don’t see _every_ teacher but he’d half hoped curly-haired Tobias would stop by and say hello. He sees the boy everyday and he still can’t get enough of how intelligent and articulate he his for a shy fifteen year old boy. It’s almost… not natural.

But truth be told, just as he’s starting to pack up his things he hears the unmistakable sound of a parent reading the room numbers out loud in attempt to find the one their kid scribbled down for them on a piece of paper. He realizes then that this parent is alone, not the first without-a-kid-in-tow parent he’s encountered over the course of today, and there’s no mistaking just exactly _who_ this parent belongs to. Louis' eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees a head of curly hair that’s much too high off the ground to be the Tobias (who he should start calling Toby like everyone else does) he sees daily.

The man is nearly six feet tall, wearing these ridiculous sparkly boots and ripped jeans and a white button-up under a blue blazer. If Louis didn’t know better, he’d think he was a student as well, because honestly, no parent should ever be allowed to dress like _that._ Louis almost chokes when the man reaches out a hand for him to shake and probably dies half a dozen times when he watches his significantly smaller one be swallowed up by it.

The moment their eyes meet, the man’s giving a ridiculous ten-watt grin, dimples popping on either cheek. However, Louis hears a string of _shitshitshitshit_ that obviously isn’t coming from either of their mouths.

He retracts his hand like he’s been burned and says in a hurry, “Hi, um, I’m Mr. Tomlinson, you can call me Louis? I guess? If we ever meet again maybe? Probably not? Um, you, are you Tobias’ dad? I can,” he gestures wildly to his own head, “you know.” He coughs trying to wrap his head around what he’s trying to say. “Hair.”

Louis looks down at his shoes, thinking _I was just imagining it, it was me, my voice._ He concentrates on the stupid smiley faces that he drew when he was nineteen, then he nearly cries because his feet haven’t grown in seven years.

He hears a deep chuckle, and by deep Louis means  _deeperthanthefuckingocean_ _howisthatevenpossible_ deep.

Then the man speaks.

“Yes. I’m Toby’s father, if that wasn’t obvious.” He coughs into his fist. “Sorry, um, Harry. You can call me Harry if you like. Or, Mr. Styles, I guess.” He stops and Louis hears in the same voice _Christ that sounds stupid_ , at the same instant that the man in front of him furrows his eyebrows at shakes his head at himself, even though he’s not talking. “If you’d like I mean. But, to be honest, I’d rather you not.” He laughs again, nervously.

Louis is surely dead. He’s dead. There’s no way this is real.

He says _Can you hear me?_ in his head. It’s on a mostly whim, but he can’t be imagining the foreign, nervous gibberish running through his mind.

He looks up at Harry, who nods with his huge doe eyes staring back at Louis, whose breath catches right in his throat and he literally starts choking right there behind his desk.

_I guess this couldn’t be going worse,_ he thinks harshly in the midst of _oh God_ and _I’m going to die._

“It could be _much_ worse,” Harry proclaims, almost too casually for someone who’s witnessing a choking victim. He pulls Louis upright and Louis just chokes a little more before Harry claps him on the back. He sort of feels bad for whoever’s walked by this room in the last two minutes.

“Sorry about that,” he coughs again, watching his fingers pick at a loose thread on his shirt, “I’m not. I just— I’ve been waiting for this moment for—”

“Forever.”

Louis nods slowly. “I’d imagined it a little differently though.” He laughs, a soft, self-deprecating chuckle at all the ludicrous scenarios he’s pictured over the years. About a hundred of them run through his head and he’s pretty sure that now Harry knows just how pathetic he is. He looks up from his hands, and Harry looking at him so softly and fondly and Louis thinks he can get used to that look. Then he blushes for thinking that.

Harry laughs again. _It’s not pathetic._ Then, “I think it’s adorable.”

They stand there and stare at each other for a long while, just reveling in the fact that they can have a silent conversation. They exchange fond looks and giggles until they simultaneously realize why they're here in the first place.

“Right,” Louis clarifies, rifling through his papers. His brain is a fuzzy mess of the last three months and the last three years and all he wants to do is tell Harry that his son is brilliant but he suddenly forgets how to form words, hands trembling to match the growing trepidation in his abdomen. “Yeah, um, Tobia— _Toby_. Right, he’s— yes.”

Harry laughs again, and Louis kind of wants to hit him in the face. “Hey,” Harry says, putting a hand over Louis' shaking ones to steady him.

Louis let’s out a breath he didn't know he was holding in a shaky rush. He’s nervous, unnecessarily nervous and he thinks he feels his right eye twitch a few times. Louis doesn't know what to do with himself, lungs filling and emptying more harshly than he’d like at that moment. It’s just Harry’s so _calm_ , and it’s a bit unnerving really. Harry taps a finger to his temple and nods.

“I’ve got you.” He shoots Louis a broad grin. “If you need my number I’ll assume you have access to it.” Then he winks, he _fucking_ _winks_.

Louis is so screwed.

 *

Louis always makes sure to schedule his appointments at least fifteen or twenty minutes later than the time he asks Zayn to remind him of. It seems like a fool-proof plan, but Louis always ends up late anyway. It’s inevitable.

So now it’s Sunday and he’s sat in his dentist’s office, waiting for a spot to open up. He’s still got half a dozen errands to run before he has his shift at the shop, and honestly, he should've known better. He twiddles his thumbs, listening to patient after patient be called as the office fills up with more people who are actually _on time_. He wants to scream, or punch someone, or leave. But just as he’s about to stand up, the bell on the door rings again and he hears _shit, it’s him_ pass through his head. It takes him a few moments to realize that the thought isn’t his. He looks up hurriedly when he does, eyes automatically landing on a pair of curly heads and two pairs of equally wide, green eyes.

Toby looks absolutely mortified to see his teacher outside of school, and Harry looks completely horrified that his thought came out the way it did. (He’s thinking it as well.) Louis hears a rambling _sorrysorrysorry. I just— I meant. I…_ “Fuck.” Harry claps a hand over his mouth. Louis does the same and can’t help the giggle that escapes him when Harry’s face flushes.

Just then, a blonde dentist comes out from essentially nowhere and calls for Toby. “How’s my main man?” he shouts across the small waiting room, everyone turning to look at him. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t give half of a shit, because he continues to shout. “Come on in, I’ve been waiting long enough.” Then he disappears. 

Toby takes a step forward, then looks back at his father, gesturing between Harry and Louis. “Are you two…?” Harry nods, face so red he might as well say he’s been sunburned. Toby pulls a disgusted face. “That’s gross.” Then he points to Louis. “Sorry but I think I’ll have to transfer out of your class.” And he’s much bolder outside of the classroom, isn’t he?

Louis half-hopes he isn't joking.

 *

Harry ends up sitting next to Louis and flirting shamelessly. It goes on for about a half hour before Harry asks, “How long have you been sitting here?”

Louis snorts (actually snorts, what did he ever do to deserve this). “A really long time. I was late for my appointment and it doesn't look like I’m getting in any time soon. I’ll just reschedule.” He checks his non-existent watch. “I’ve got to get going or I’m going to be late for more important things than having someone count my teeth.” He stands up, but Harry grabs his wrist and pulls him back down. “What?” he whisper-shouts, “They’re all there, I promise!”

Harry looks at him. He just looks at him. Right in his eyes. He looks at him for about two minutes until people start to cough awkwardly.

“My friend owns this place,” he announces, releasing Louis' wrist. “You should've said something earlier. I’ll get you in when he brings Toby back out. Shouldn’t be long now.” He smiles softly, dimples popping slightly. It’s not that he ever stopped smiling, but this smile is more subtle, it says _yeah, I’m looking out for you._

Louis can’t do anything but nod and smile back and he’s wondering why he isn’t a puddle of blood and guts already because he feels like he’s melting under Harry’s gaze. It’s all very ridiculous.

“Well what would I do with a puddle of you?”

_Jesus Christ._

Louis feels like an idiot, honestly. He buries his face in his hands, can feel his cheeks heating up. He just laughs, because he can’t believe this is really happening. He can’t believe he’s just met this person, this absolutely wonderful _person_ that apparently he’s meant to spend the rest of his life with that he’s spent his whole life thus far looking for and it’s all happening too fast. He knows Harry can hear everything he’s thinking and well, that’s _scary._ No secrets between them until it’s absolutely permanent and they’ll be able to read each other just as easily when that happens.

And he can’t wait.

 *

(Louis may or may not look up Harry’s phone number in Toby’s school records the next day.)

By Thursday, Louis has considered calling Harry about forty-six times. He most definitely does _not_ keep count (and honestly, that’s just an absolutely filthy lie.) It’s been a routine, wake up, stare at Harry’s name on his phone screen, go to work, stare during his lunch break, stare during the walk home, eat dinner, stare, shower, stare, sleep. He’s hopeless.

“Zaaaaaaaaayn,” he’s whining by Friday. “What do I do?” He’s sure to drag the ‘do’ out extra long just so he can prove to Zayn that he has extremely strong lungs and that he should’ve been a singer.

He’s lying on top of Zayn, who’s only just got home from work himself and landed on the couch with an ‘oomph’. He must have been expecting a nice relaxing Friday night before he has to start packing for his big move the following day.

“Zayn, you’re leaving me tomorrow. Alone. To fend for myself. You owe me at least one last bit of advice before you and your lover elope and I never see your gorgeous face again.”

Zayn groans, trying to sit up to no avail. Louis is a dead weight of despair on top of him. The look he gives Louis only has small remnants of pity, but he’ll take it. After a few more moments of struggling, Zayn sighs. “Fine, you douche bag. Just get off me and get me some food or something while I think.” Louis rolls his eyes, but complies. He’s quite desperate.

When he returns with a soggy but warm slice of leftover pizza, Zayn is chatting animatedly on the phone to someone.

“Yeah. Of course! So nine o’clock alright? I’ll watch him, I mean if you tru— oh. Right. But I’ll do it for free.” He smiles somewhat deviously. “Perfect. Nine, yes. Thanks so much. See you then.”

Louis smirks as Zayn hands him— wait. Hands him _his_ phone back. “Wh— why were you on my phone? Who were you talking to? What’s—no. No. No you didn’t. No way. Absolutely not. I hate you. I’m going to strangle you. As soon as I can figure out how to move my legs again, I am going to _strangle you._ ”

All the while Zayn laughs and laughs. Zayn has just set him up on a date and he just goes on and _laughs_ about it. Here he was thinking Zayn was actually a good friend. 

“Be ready nine o’clock tomorrow night,” he chokes out between his obnoxious cackles.

 *

Louis is ready by eight… in the morning. Sort of.

He wakes up at seven and takes a nice cold shower. Even so, he spends half the day pacing, ruffling his hair so much it starts to look dirty again and he has to take another shower. At three o’clock he eats his feelings in an entire bag of tangerines and a box of oreos, and then at four drinks a whole half-gallon carton of milk. At four thirty he pukes it all up and at five Zayn finally yells at him to sit down and watch a movie. He watches _Grease_ in it’s entirety twice before there’s a rap on the apartment door. The sound of it hammers in his head and he almost wants to pass out. He wants to just collapse on the floor and not have to face the embarrassing fact that he’s almost twenty-seven years old and he’s been set up on a date with his _soulmate_ for God’s sake. Sue him, but he feels like an absolute loser.

_You’re not a loser._

The deep rasp of Harry’s voice pierces right through Louis' skull in the most comforting way. He slaps a hand over his eyes, blushing hard. 

Zayn coughs. “Alright, enough of the telepathic love. I know it’s all very exciting.” He reaches a hand out towards Tobias. “Hello young sir, my name is Zayn and tonight we’re going to have the most fun you’ll ever have in your life. Hands down. I’m very unpredictable.”

Harry gives Louis a skeptical look and Louis just shrugs. “He’s too chicken to do anything illegal; you’ve got nothing to worry about. _But,_ he does know how to have fun. I’ll give ‘im that.”

They all laugh, Zayn preening under the attention. “Off you go now kids,” he announces, and he shoves them out the door.

 *

By the time their food actually arrives, Louis is squirming with how easy it is to talk to Harry. It’s not solely based on the fact that they can literally read each other’s minds, but it’s how naturally comfortable they are in the other’s presence. They don’t listen to the same music, watch the same TV shows, hell, they grew up on opposite sides of the country. The two get along regardless, talking about everything and anything, discovering their differences and habits more than anything else. Louis can’t help but think, much to his dismay, that this is just too good to be true. Harry gives him an almost disapproving look every time the thought flickers through his mind. It’s nagging, like the mosquito you can hear buzzing around you but you just can’t see. He wishes he could swat it away, because, well, he feels like this could definitely be forever.

Harry seems to agree because he’s been looking at Louis the whole night like he’s not even sure he’s real. Louis catches several touching metaphors flit by in his head while Harry munches on his third salad. It’s extremely endearing. He finds out that Harry likes poetry himself, and clearly he’s a much better poet than Louis. Louis isn’t the best with writing poems, hates rhyming and verses and all the aforementioned bullshit he always leaves out in his pieces. Harry catches that and voices that “that’s what free verse is for” and Louis retorts that “it’s still _technically_ in verse.” Harry shuts up after that because he hears Louis think that he’d rather be classified as a broader, free writer than strictly a _poet_. Harry gets that.

“Don’t like being too restricted, hmm?” Harry says it cheekily, like he’s suggesting something that Louis doesn't quite pick up on.

So Louis just goes on with what he was saying. “Yeah, it’s no fun being y’know, tied down? I guess? To being one thing? But I mean that’s what everyone goes for, to be one thing in life. I’d like to be an all around person.” He shrugs, eating a large piece of his steak.

Harry chuckles. “All around person, huh? Like, you like to get around?”

Louis still really doesn’t understand why he’s making those faces and saying things in that voice and _eating his food like—_ oh.

Oh.

Louis wriggles around in his seat as it finally clicks. Harry smirks, like he finds joy in making Louis squirm. Louis realizes then that this was probably his goal the whole time and he nearly chokes on his tongue remembering the last time this happened. It’d been just like this, a date. He was sixteen. He was fucking sixteen years old and this _older guy_ who made him feel so safe took him out for dinner. He cracked dirty jokes, making Louis giggle the whole night. Louis was—is—convinced the man had slipped something in his drink. 

He tries to force himself to think of something else before Harry catches a glimpse of something Louis' not ready to share. Harry doesn't look too concerned though, so Louis thanks whatever’s floating above the clouds that he didn't notice Louis' frantic thoughts about marine animals.

Harry takes a sip of his drink (which is wine and Louis' starting to second guess his choice of getting the same). “Y’alright? Do you want to leave?”

Louis shakes his head and hastily takes another bite of steak. “No,” he insists around his mouthful, “I’m fine, yeah. Can we maybe get dessert?”

Harry just smirks again and Louis nearly cringes when he winks. He doesn’t want to judge Harry right off the bat because the man has a _son_ for fucks sake, he’d never hurt him… would he? Louis' unfortunately learned over the years not to trust anyone too easily, and has become tentative in any sort of relationship. He can’t help it, nor is it his fault. And he has to tell himself that every single day, that it _wasn’t his fault_. He tells himself that he didn’t “let his guard down” and that he doesn’t mean he’s weak. Every single day he has to remind himself he’s not the person he thinks he is. It’s hard sometimes (most of the time), but he has to do it anyway. It’s the truth. His mind is racing a mile a minute and he can guarantee that Harry isn’t keeping up, because he can hardly keep up himself.

“D’you wanna come sit next to me? We can share a banana split or somethin’?” He pats the little bit of booth space left next to him. Louis doesn’t feel himself nodding, a little numb within his thoughts, trying to keep them under control. He mindlessly gets up and sinks into the chair next to Harry, squeezing in so their legs are pressed tightly together.

When the ice cream is finally placed in front of them, Harry has cracked enough bad puns to distract Louis, keeping his mind blissfully blank, save for the awful banana jokes. It’s only when the ice cream is nearly gone that Louis feels something warm on his knee. He jolts, realizing that it’s Harry’s hand and he nearly chokes on the bit of banana in his mouth. He tries to laugh it off, tries not to seem so awfully, awfully affected.

But he is affected, he’s very much affected when that hand starts to creep higher and higher up his thigh. Harry doesn't seem to notice Louis' heart rate picking up as his hand stops just below the zipper of his jeans. Louis' breathing heavily now, heart threatening to thump right out of his chest and into their ice cream. He dares to peek an eye open and look at Harry, who’s got nothing but mischief and intent his eyes.

Louis' breath gets caught in his throat and he barely registers himself wriggling away from Harry’s offending hand, a rush of cold air replacing the previous warmth.

Harry’s face softens just a bit, the twinkle never leaving his eyes. It makes Louis sick to his stomach. “You okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Louis can’t stand it, can’t respond. His chest constricts with the memory, the phantom fear in his heart, and he has to go. He has to leave before Harry sees, before he finds out. He can’t find out, not now, not like this, maybe not at all. Louis chokes on a “sorry” before rushing out of the restaurant. He has a quick thought that Harry has to pay for that probably-really-expensive meal and he mentally scolds himself for it. It’s all he can do as he’s running through the streets, nothing but _home_ on his mind.

He doesn’t cry though. He can’t let himself cry until he knows no one can see. When he gets back to the apartment he composes himself enough to text Zayn Harry’s number to find out where he is and bring Toby to him. He probably misspells half of the words in his haste, vision blurred by the tears threatening to spill too soon.

And maybe, maybe he should've seen this coming.

 *

Zayn doesn't ask him about it the next day, just asks him if he wants to talk. When Louis shakes his head solemnly, Zayn packs up the rest of his stuff and waits to for Liam to pick him up. He hugs Louis for a long time before Liam knocks on the door. Louis can feel him taking in the new emptiness where his clothes and plates and shoes used to be strewn about the apartment. He wants to scream at him not to go, not to leave him alone, not now, not ever.

But that would be selfish.

When Zayn finally does walk out the door, it almost feels like a bad break up. It’s stupid really, that he feels the way he does. Zayn is moving on with his life and he should be happy for him. He’s lonely though, had been dependent on Zayn for company, for comfort, and now that’s gone, so he can’t help but feel a little lost.

It doesn’t make it any better that he didn’t tell Zayn about the night before. Zayn is only one who knows what happened _that night_ and quite frankly Zayn is his only friend. Louis doesn’t think that’d it be right, though, to call him up while he’s finally living the life he’s been looking for for years. Louis comes to the decision that he has to let it go and move on, that he just needs to forget Harry, that it was another false alarm.

He tries to get on with it, his life. He doesn't call Harry, Harry doesn't call him, and Toby doesn’t raise his hand for two weeks.

 *

Louis has nightmares for several weeks after that.

They haven't been this bad since he was nineteen, overbearing and lingering in his mind at all times. The sudden flashbacks and triggered memories from his date with Harry flare them up, and they're back with a vengeance, determined to stick around for a long while.

Everyday at work becomes a struggle; he starts flinching every time a kid drops their book, gasping in fright when someone appears behind him. It starts to take a toll on all of them, really, to the point where the kids start asking him if he’s alright. And he isn’t, he really really isn’t, but he’s not about to tell a bunch of fifteen year olds that he can’t sleep at night and is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

After about a month of avoiding the inevitable, he brushes up the guts to ask for a few weeks off, to collect himself, and try to get past this. He wants to go back to therapy, knows it might help him in the long run, but he also knows there’s no way he can afford it on his own. But Louis needs help, he needs _someone_ to talk to. He’s lost, lost and alone, and he feels like he’s drowning in everything. Years of therapy taught him not to let it take over, but he’s lost control, and it’s suffocating him. His past is the monster under his bed and the skeleton in his closet, both of which he had neatly tucked away for a long while. But now they've escaped, and he’s running and running, though he doesn't seem to be getting very far. 

 *

It’s the morning of a particularly bad night that Louis' phone rings for the first time in two months. He picks it up hastily, tears still streaming down his face. He’d barely been asleep for an hour before he was jolted awake by the sound of his own screaming. He doesn’t check the called ID, too dazed to think it’s anyone but Zayn, if he’s lucky.

“Hello?” he barely manages to choke out. It’s embarrassing, it really is. He can’t even keep it together.

“Sweetheart?” It’s his mother, bless her soul. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head until he remembered she isn't there. “No. God, no, Mom. Th-they came back.” He’s sobbing quietly, gasping loudly, hiccuping all over the place. He feels like he’s eight years old again, crying over his broken wrist and chipped tooth. He leans back into his pillows, trying to melt into the mattress. He just wants all of this to stop. He hears his mother gasp quietly, and he can picture her putting her hand over her mouth.

“For how long?”

“S’been two months Mom. It’s hurts so much. I had to leave work and I just— why haven't you called?” He feels selfish for asking, but he’s been alone for so long.

“Honey I’ve been calling your cell for weeks. Every night. I kept calling and calling… you usually call every few days. I thought you might’ve been busy with something.”

He looks at the phone in his hand and nearly dies when he sees it’s the landline.

“Oh my God, Mom. No— Christ I’m so so sorry. I had no idea. I-I just— _fuck_.” He cries a little harder. He feels so _stupid_. 

“Sweetie, it’s fine. It’s okay, I promise.” She takes a thoughtful pause. Louis opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off. “Ha-have you talked to someone?”

He runs a hand through his hair, realizes then that his hands are trembling uncontrollably. “Can’t afford it.”

“Oh my gosh, Louis.” Neither of them make a move to say anything. “Louis. Why, _why_ didn't you _ask_ me. This isn't a new bike or tickets to a soccer game, this is your _life_ sweetheart, your feelings. I know you have your pride, pumpkin, but I’m here to help you out if you need it.”

Louis' whole body is shaking with sobs and his mother tells him to breathe. But he can’t he _can’t_ , because he’s an idiot. He let it all get the best of him and he can’t think clearly he can’t breathe properly he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. “Mom, I’m sor—”

“Do _not_ apologize. Don’t.” There’s a long silence, Louis' ears ringing with it. He’s got a thousand apologies dripping off his tongue, and he can’t think of anything else to say. “Do you want me to come visit?”

“No.”

He takes three deep breaths.

“Do you want me to pay for a few sessions?”

“S’too late for that.”

He scrubs the tears off his cheeks with one hand.

“Then what are you going to do, my love?”

Louis thinks about it for a long time, listening to the ticking of the penis clock (the infamous Cock Clock) Zayn bought him for his birthday last year that’s mounted on the wall above his bed. He knows he needs to do something about this, that he can’t lay in bed for the rest of his life and hope for his problems to simply go away. He knows he needs a course of action if he wants to get better and get back to work. But even then, he’s not sure he even wants to do that. Right now, at this moment, he wants to move back home with his mother and sisters. But that’s throwing away everything he’s worked for. Christ, he’s a mess.

“I don’t know.”

His mother sighs softly. “I know you, baby, you’re strong and you're smart. You’re too smart for your own good sometimes. You’ll figure this out, I know you will. You’ve done it once before, and if you ever need me I’m here, alright? You’ll get through this.”

Louis nods, more to himself than anything, and tells his mom he loves her, and that he’ll call her tomorrow. He needs some time to _think._

He forces himself out of his bed to find his phone. He rifles around for about an hour before he catches sight of it wedged between two couch cushions. Well, that’s cliché, but apparently not enough so that it’s the last place he looked. When he finally gets it to turn on, about half a million messages make his phone buzz for five minutes straight. It stops eventually, and when it does, he scrolls through the people that bothered enough to contact him.

The first fifty or so messages and missed calls are from Zayn, who eventually gave up. Liam had probably assured him that Louis was fine and convinced him to not check on him. The next six-hundred (or so it seems) are missed calls from his mother, the latest one from just last night. He smiles a bit at the semi-legible text messages she had attempted to send, grateful to have a mother that cares so much.

Well isn't he one lucky little shit?

Then he sees it, mixed between “Mum” and “Z-Money”, the name “Soulmate <3” scattered about with brief messages of “are you ok???” and “what happened??” It make his stomach lurch and his head swim a bit, that the messages from Harry are nearly double that of Zayn’s and more than half of his mother’s.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, swiping a hand through his very, very, _very_ dirty hair. He stares at the name for a long, long while before sniffing his shirt and deciding he needs a long, long shower if he’s going to do this. “Fuck my life.”

 *

A bottle and a half of shampoo later, Louis is able to breathe again.

He sits on the beat up purple couch, thinking about what he can possibly say. He has to offer up some kind of explanation, but doesn't know if he can bear the pain of the words escaping his lips again. More so, he doesn't want to do it over the phone, but he doesn't have a choice. If he meets Harry in person, he’ll hear what Louis is thinking straight away, and that’s not how it should happen.

Suddenly Louis remembers that technology is more advanced than it seems to be in his jumbled disaster of a brain.

He sends Zayn a text to come over later around dinnertime, if he can. Afterwards, he messages Harry to ask if he can Skype, unaware that it’s noon on a Tuesday. Harry sends him a confirmation with his username and it’s unreasonably nerve-wracking.

Louis' hands are shaking again when he presses the call button. Harry’s face pops up, a little and he’s breathing like he’s just run a mile or two. He looks like he’s in an office building, a huge window behind him showing off the Manhattan skyline.

“Hi,” he breathes out, still grinning, dimples popped full force. Louis' heart stutters a bit, he’s sure of it.

“Hey, um,” Louis doesn’t know where to start. “Hi.”

Harry clears his throat a little suggestively. “How’re you?” Louis just nods, looking anywhere but the computer screen. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Harry doesn't seem to be having it. “I know you’re lying, babe.” _Babe._ “I can feel it. Felt it this whole time. M’not myself and people keep asking.”

_No fucking way._  

Louis inhales a sharp breath that burns his nose and throat. He digs his hands into his bare thighs and just then realizes he’s in nothing but his briefs. His face flushes. He catches sight of a red hoodie peeking out from under the tattered old coffee table that Zayn bought last year at a flea market for twelve dollars. It’s been holding up (Louis' feet) quite nicely. He leans over for it and pulls it on quickly, immediately feeling more secure swimming in the oversized sleeves.

“I thought it was just a myth.”

Harry shakes his head, eyes cast down and Louis has no doubt in his mind that he’s fiddling with the end of his polkadot tie. Louis can almost feel the silky fabric running through his fingers, but he might be imagining it with his newfound knowledge. “S’ just really rare.”

“So… you’ve known, like, that—“

“That you’ve been having nightmares?”

The question throws Louis off for just a second before he nods. “Yeah.” Then, “I owe you an apology… and an explanation.”

Harry shakes his head again, firmer this time. He looks up at the screen and his eyes are swamped with dread and pity, filled to the brim with unshed tears. Even with the shitty quality of the video cat, the sight tears Louis apart inside. _I caused that._ “You don’t owe me anything.” His voice is tight. “I’m really sorry.”

He can’t, he can’t do this. Louis brings his hands to his face, muttering swear words like it’s an actual language. “No, no, no, _no_. This is _not_ your fault. I promise. I just…” He’s better off just spitting it out. He has to do this.

“When I was sixteen,” he starts. His stomach is already churning uncomfortably. “I thought I’d found my soulmate. He was older than me, and I could y’know, the telepathy. We were together for maybe two weeks when he finally asked to take me out on a proper date. I was like, completely head over heels it was ridiculous.” He’s already starting to choke on his words, hands coming up to brush away the tears now and again. “Halfway through dinner I go to use the bathroom because God decided to grace me with the smallest bladder ever. I came back, we finished eating, and the next thing I remember is we’re back at his apartment and I’m handcuffed to the bed. I hadn’t really panicked too much, ‘cause he was sitting next to me and he’d actually used pink, fuzzy handcuffs.” He chuckles wetly at the absurdity of it, still not looking up at Harry. “But then, like, I got nervous because like we’d make out a lot but I was never ready and like he _said_ respected that and I was a virgin and he just, he— _fuck_.” He chokes on it for real then, senses filling with the horrifying memory of it. “I screamed and screamed but nobody heard. Nobody ever came.” He can almost feel the ghost of the smothering weight on top of him.

Harry speaks eventually, and Louis can hear him nervously shuffling closer to the computer screen. “Breathe, it’s alright. Hey, _hey_ , look at me.” Louis looks up slowly, afraid of what he might see. He meets Harry’s eyes best he can, knows that Harry’s looking directly at the camera and not him. “It’s over, it’s over and done with and you survived it. Look at you, you’re fine. Absolutely wonderful and alive and _perfect._ You’re perfectly alright. I promise. I swear to God I will _never_ hurt you, okay?”

Louis nods, scrubbing the stray tears from his cheeks. “Okay.”

“I just want to make you happy.”

Suddenly, Harry lets out a sigh of relief, sways backwards. He blinks a few times, like he’s just opening his eyes after being the dark for days. Louis feels the release of tension as well, a heavy feeling of apprehension lifted from him, leaving him with only his own distress. He feels better then, lighter, and in awe that Harry was, and most likely still is, holding that much weight of emotion because of him. 

Harry still looks a little dazed, rubbing his eyes and breathing deeply. “Shit…”

Louis feels bad for quite literally dumping all of those awful feelings on him. “Sorry about at all that.”

“It’s alright.” Louis wants to shout at him that it isn’t alright, that nothings alright. (Well maybe not _nothing._ ) “When can I see you?” His face is soft and curious as he tilts his head to the side and Christ, he’s got to be about five years old.

Louis laughs, lungs able to fill easily once more. “Soon.”

 *

Apparently, the twenty minute drive from Harry’s job (and Louis is kind of angry he just left work in the middle of the day for him) to Louis' apartment isn’t soon enough, because the moment Louis opens the door Harry’s crushing Louis' smaller form in a warm hug that lasts for about six minutes.

“Alright, okay,” Louis teases. “It hasn’t even been half and hour.”

“It’s been two _months_ you nitwit.”

And it has been. “Oops.”

Harry laughs, loud and from the bottom of his lungs, and buries his nose in Louis' hair. Louis doesn’t let either of them pull away for a long time since they haven’t been able to hold each other until today. He’s basking in the feeling of being able to just have Harry in his arms, knows Harry is doing the same. And it’s all happening so fast. Louis can hear Harry’s heart racing happily in his chest. Harry pulls back eventually though, keeping both hands on either side of Louis' face. He seems to inspect him properly as if he's making sure Louis' ear-to-ear grin is genuine.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs.

There’s a few moments of comfortable silence then, neither of them daring to ruin the moment. It’s eerily silent almost, until the two simultaneously realize with wide eyes,

“No thoughts.”

They don’t know what to do with themselves, and Louis can feel Harry’s fingers start to twitch slightly with the lack of movement. He can see it in his eyes that he doesn't want to push Louis, make him uncomfortable like the last time, that last horrible time at dinner. Louis night not be able to hear his soulmate’s thoughts, but he can see the way his eyes drift down towards his mouth. It doesn’t take a literal mind-reader to figure out that he wants to kiss him.

“You can, you know,” he mumbles in the hush of the empty apartment.

Harry pulls a shocked face. “Wait, you…? But I—”

“I can’t,” Louis clarifies, “But I’m not an idiot.”

The both laugh, happy and content and blissful and completely exultant, simply from being in each other’s company. Louis thinks it’s all pretty magical, like his own little happily ever after. Almost.

“I didn't mean to do it,” Harry mentions after another short while. “Your head was going crazy. But I guess I should've realized something was wrong, what with all the random dolphins I kept seeing. I’m going to help you get through this, I promise. I swear, as long as it ta—”

“No.”

Harry pulls back a little further then. “What?”

“No. You’ve got your own life. You have a job, you have a _kid_. You can’t just drop everything because I’m having a little issue.”

“It’s _not_ a little issue, Louis. Don’t just brush it off like it doesn't matter. You matter. To me. And I’m going to get you through this. No matter what it takes. I _promise_.” He pulls Louis easily back into his chest. “I promise.”

It’s hard for Louis to tell who makes the first move, but suddenly their lips are crashing in a bruising kiss. Their teeth clack together with the force of it, but it’s fine. It’s perfectly fine. In fact, Louis thinks it’s better than fine. It’s beautifully wonderful like a summer’s day. He finally feels for the first time in a long time that someone can make him happy. A corresponding warmth blooms inside him.

Happiness. That sounds nice.

Their mouths finally detach when Harry has Louis pinned to the wall. Which wall, Louis doesn’t know. All he knows is that Harry’s got his face nestled in his neck, his warm breath coming out in heavy pants sending tremors down his spine. Harry doesn’t move, just presses his lips softly to Louis' shoulder. His voice comes out muffled when he asks, “Is it too soon to say ‘I love you?’” 

Louis' chest and throat tighten as he wraps his arms tighter around Harry’s neck where they’re rested. “We were always meant to love each other,” he concludes. “Loved you before I even knew you. Soulmates, innit?”

Harry nods, and breathing has slowed on Louis' skin, returned back to normal. Louis' heart swells at the close proximity, never having felt safer in his life. It’s not uncomfortable or harshly triggering, and Louis is loving this boy-man more and more with each passing second. And he still doesn’t even know him that well.

Yet.

They’ve got entire lifetime ahead of them to figure each other out, to learn and love and laugh together for the rest of time.

Louis thinks he’s found his own perfect little piece of forever.

**Author's Note:**

> if you leave me a comment my heart will probably stop beating and then start again and then I will thank you profusely even if you say it was shit thank you very much I hope you liked it


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